


For To See Her Was To Love Her

by Trainscribbler



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 20:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10974405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trainscribbler/pseuds/Trainscribbler
Summary: Nicola always found it a tad embarrassing that her grand entrance to DoSAC was made with nothing but paper and a pen. In a bid to save face she goes out on a limb and hires a member of staff for herself, hoping the new team member will be the poster girl for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, casting them in a light of inclusivity, diversity, positivity, and lots of other lovely words that end in -ity.Malcolm disagrees however. A wanton waste of the department's very finite budget, wilful capitalisation of a young woman. She has to go... Doesn't she?(I am appalling at summaries, sorry! Please just give it a read and see what you think. The actual -plot- behind this contains a lot more thought that I am making it sound like in the blurb. I'm just horrid at condensing >.> MalcolmXOC/Slowburn/OFC).





	1. Chapter 1

"Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted" - Robert Burns, 1791

 

 

It took four days to be noticed.

 

On day one as Malcolm Tucker swept through the offices of DoSAC he didn’t so much as register the new face. Storming straight into the Secretary of State’s fishbowl, his senses bent on stamping all over Murray’s immigration stats car-crash, he didn’t have the spare capacity for thought about anything else. By the time he was finished putting her through the emotional wringer, he was frazzled enough himself that his gaze was laser focused on the door to the lift. The new presence didn’t even warrant his attention on the outermost periphery. 

 

Day two, hand-holding through the fallout from the leak, he might have caught a half-glance of some blonde curls over the top of the flimsy partition walls that accounted for the nearest thing the workspaces had to the privacy of a cubicle. If asked he wouldn’t have remembered.

 

Day three, during morning rounds to dole out the key, spoon-fed responses to the  headlines that were summarily fucking Nicola Murray into the ground he might have vaguely caught Terri’s voice cordially explaining in a corner how the scanner worked. 

 

It wasn’t until day four though, when he finally paused to take a breath for himself as opposed to one for the Party, that he actually noticed.

 

Malcolm Tucker hadn’t smoked in over a decade. Stinking, disgusting habit. Pulled bad press like an electromagnet. The nanny-state cracked down harder on tobacco every year and a high profile aide couldn’t afford that sort of attention. Besides, his hands looked ropey enough without adding nicotine stains to the mix.

 

He still enjoyed the ritual though. On particularly bad days, he would take a few seconds, slip out to the corner behind the bins, take the world’s smallest pouch of Golden Virginia from the breast pocket of suit and carefully roll up. The motion of teasing the loose tobacco, rolling it up in a smooth cylinder, tapping it down a couple of times on the nearest flat surface to pack it… It was a skill that once gained, never went away. Ten years smoke free and he could still roll a ciggie that looked like it’d come from a Cuban virgin’s thigh. He’d take a minute to admire his handiwork, maybe even sniff it if it was the very worst of days... 

 

Then he’d throw it in the bin. Still in control. He was the winner. 

 

On day four when he opened up the fire-exit that was very definitely not supposed to be used other than in emergencies, intent on taking a minute or two to cool off, it was raining. Cursing under his breath he stepped out any way. Rather stand in pissing rain for a couple of minutes than put his sanity under any more strain just for something as trivial as being dry. Darting behind the large, blue bins to the ancient half shed that accounted for the smoker’s shelter, head bowed against the worst of the precipitation, he still didn’t notice. Not straight away. 

 

It was only when he pulled out his paraphernalia and began the ritual, tearing off a tiny corner of Rizla packet in lieu of a filter (damned if he was going to pay for those as well), that he caught the whiff of smoke. Someone was in his spot.

 

Long fingers paused. He wondered how he was going to explain this away. Then again, it could be Terri. All it would take is a long, hard stare. 

 

He glanced up. Sharp blue eyes fell on the offender. Not Terri. 

 

Definitely not Terri. 

 

The interloper was young. Worryingly fresh faced. Not even thirty, by his reckoning. None of those sunken features that betrayed someone with time in Westminster under their belt. Greener than a leprechaun’s turd, then. 

 

The invader gave him a smile. One of those polite, slightly awkward smiles that were shared silently between the social underclass that smokers had become.  _ You too, eh? Remember when you could have a fag in a pub? Cold, isn’t it? We should be allowed a pavement heater.  _

 

Heart shaped face. Bambi eyes. Too big. Childlike. Blue. Blonde hair gathered in an updo, wispy curls escaping around ears and neck. Full lips pressed a bit thin as the uncomfortable smile continued. Cream trouser suit. Cheap-looking. Maybe from Tesco. Worn well, the fit passable, but the fabric had that polyester sheen about it.

 

The smile finally gave way as she took a draw on her cigarette. Hand-rolled. Yep. No money.

 

“Those things’ll kill you.”

 

This time the smile was more genuine. A soft breath of a laugh exhaled through her nose. He’d had to say something. He felt oddly accosted by the interloper, he didn’t want the silent staring to carry on. 

 

“Says you,” she replied, warmth in her voice. It was a polite amusement, but genuine. She nodded at the tobacco pouch in his hands. He didn’t look down.

 

“Not today.”

 

He didn’t like this. These few moments were sacrosanct. He didn’t want to be interrupted. 

 

“I suppose. Who knows? Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. Maybe you’ll get hit by a bus on your way home, right?” Another smile. Her nose creased. Christ above, she was young. 

 

“Maybe…” He didn’t do small talk. He was actually sort of terrible at it, unless it was with Sam. Sam was easy company. She didn’t count. But with strangers, with anyone else, really… He was good at being grandiose. He didn’t talk about the weather or the footie scores or the rising price of a Freddo. 

 

He turned his attention back to the packet in his hand. The trembling had already dissipated some. Now he felt exposed. He didn’t want an audience.

 

The little green and gold pouch whent back into the pocket of his blazer. The interloper took a final draw on her rollie before dropping it on the ground. One foot moved to crush it under the ball of her shoe. Flats. 

 

“Have a nice afternoon, then.” She was reasonably good at small talk, it seemed. Another knack smokers had to have. They only had the company of each other when shunted into the elements. 

 

Malcolm let out a soft grunt that might have been a return of sentiment. He smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket, giving himself a little longer. The interloper took this as her cue to bugger off. She leaned forwards, sniffed in disappointment that the rain was still coming down, then shuffled forwards into the downpour. 

 

After two breaths he turned to watch her go, eyes landed on her back, the cream suit jacket dappled with rain spots. He blinked. She had a stick.

 

Malcolm felt one brow arch as he watched  her head back into the grey building of DoSAC headquarters. Her pace was brisk but the limp was pronounced. She leaned heavily into the black cane clutched in her left hand, her stature dependent on it. 

 

A handful of seconds and she was back inside, vanishing into the offices. Malcolm touched his tongue to his lower lip, brow furrowed in thought. Maybe not as young as she looked, then. Must moisturise well. 

 

He gave himself another minute, diligently counted, then headed in as well. Made a final round of the Department of Social Affairs and Cock-ups. All quiet on the Western Front. No sign of the blonde. Had he seen her before? He was paid to notice. It niggled at him that he couldn’t place her. 

 

Seven in the evening. Still at his desk. Number 10 ticking over quietly, most gone home, but not Malcolm Tucker. Sam had been ushered out hours ago, he made sure of it, but he settled in for the long haul. Well, the usual haul, for him. He forgot the interloper. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interloper gets a name.

'Suspicion is a heavy armour and with its weight it impedes more than it protects.' - Robert Burns, 1790

 

It was almost a fortnight before Malcolm remembered the interloper. In fact, he might not have at all, if he hadn’t of been prompted to by clapping eyes on her once more.

 

The annual party conference had essentially been in planning as soon as the doors closed on the one the year before. At least for him. While Ministers were coiffing free champagne and patting each other on the back self-congratulating themselves on what a _good_ job they had done, Malcolm had already started forecasting ahead to what issues might lay before them the following September. Who might punch who, who might have made just a slightly too off-colour racist joke that year and would not be invited to speak again. Who’d been caught leading the call girl back into his hotel room while his heavily pregnant wife was back home in London…

 

Bread and butter to a spin doctor, but utterly exhausting when the pool of people to manage went up into the thousands. No wonder Campbell used to put away thirty-odd pints a day.

 

So, the groundwork began while the Cabinet were still recovering from their hangovers. By August the following year he felt reasonably secure. Eastbourne this time. Had to be safer than Brighton. What a bunch of fuckery that had been. EDL marching straight up through the town centre on the Saturday morning, Antifa materializing to throw glass bottles  at them. An average weekend, apparently, the locals were quick enough to tell you. No more genteel Victorian seaside resort. Just an absolute clusterfuck that had fortunately been too embarrassing for anyone in the Party to be stupid enough to go near. They managed to avoid being papped once, to a man. He’d been very proud of that.

 

Eastbourne though. Eastbourne was _nice_ . Bland and quiet and home to many a blue-rinser. He’d slipped a few brochures across Tom’s desk about the Winter Garden, pointed out the budgetary benefits of being a town on the south coast that _wasn’t_ Brighton, shown him a couple of photos of the Seven Sisters estuary and wouldn’t that be a nice place to go for a walk and get a few snaps of him revelling in our green and pleasant land?

 

Eastbourne it was.

 

By August he felt essentially ready. There were a few logistics to buff out, the usual stuff to do with rooms and transport, but everyone who really mattered was sorted.

 

At least until Tom had decided ‘Oh wouldn’t it be nice if Nicola Murray was invited to be a speaker?’

 

Malcolm could have shat a cinderblock.

 

Apparently the PM felt that despite having all the media savvy of a teaspoon the public would warm to her, given the opportunity to see her in a more positive light. The conference would be a chance to humanise her. Well, either that or if she ballsed up it would flush her down the proverbial. A sink or swim moment. Which was all well and good but Malcolm would be the one expected to make her do an Olympian front crawl.

 

And so in the last week of August he was pacing his way into DoSAC, armed with briefcase and a stockpile of speech fodder that range between heartening sentiments and devastating heckle putdowns. Somewhere in between he’d find the Nicola Murray that would become the people’s darling. Hopefully. He was good but he wasn’t the fucking Messiah.

 

At 8:42 he stepped out of the lift and onto the shop floor of Social Affairs, bee-lining for her office. Terri was leaned in a cumbersome fashion against her desk, changing her shoes. Glenn and the Oxbridge Tosspot sat crumpled up with their first coffees of the day. Jerked up to pretend they were alert when they say him coming. Glenn managed a “Morning, Malcolm,” in a tone that held not so much warmth as it did the beginnings of a slow simmer of dread.

 

“Morning all!” The reply was just a bit too bright, plastic and instantly worrying. Malcolm on the warpath.

 

He made it to Nicola’s door, a hand raised to swing it open, not one for knocking, before he paused, a light flickering on in his brain. Swinging an about turn on his heel, steely eyes landed on the thing that had made him do the double take. Tucked away next to the L-shaped shelves filled with file folders and a couple of sad-looking pot plants was a desk. A desk that had very much not been there before. That was still largely uncluttered in its newness, dressed with computer, plastic in-tray, a small pile of unopened post. And the interloper sat at it.

 

She didn’t notice him staring. She was leaned over in her chair, fiddling with an extension bar, rearranging the plugs in it. A soft hum from the monitor heralded her computer coming to life as she worked. Mumbling under her breath;

 

“Bloody cleaners…”

 

Malcolm was stunned. Affronted.

 

“What the fuck is this?!”

 

His bark roused Nicola, the Minister opening up her door with a low groan, ready to face the storm. By now she’d stopped wondering what she might have done. It was taken as read that she’d just done something and that all she could do was try and steel herself for whatever strength of piss Malcolm would stream down over her.

 

“Morning, Malcolm.” She cringed inwardly. Not even 9 o’clock and she already sounded defeated by the world. Three months in Social Affairs was apparently all it had taken to snuff out the perky candle of optimism she’d carried. She’d have to try green tea...

 

“The fuck is this?!” Malcolm announced again, this time wheeling his gaze on the woman behind him, one arm flung out towards the blonde. She’d surfaced from beneath the desk by now, peering over the top of the grey-blue partition silently, extension bar still in her hands, face visible only from the bridge of her nose up, wayward strands slipped from her loose chignon dusting her forehead.

 

“The fuck is what?” Nicola could only just hold back an eyeroll. _Don’t poke the angry bear with a stick._ Her gaze followed Malcolm’s and she lit up with a sudden smile that might have been proud, though it swung more towards insipid. Faint crinkles framed the big eyes staring back, belying an unseen smile that was hidden by the pop-up wall. A  hand appeared to give an amicable wave. For some reason the simple gesture made a vein in Malcolm’s temple ache. Was there a practical joke that he wasn’t in on?

 

He span, herding Nicola into her office while managing not to actually lay a hand on her, in the moment seeming much taller than his six feet.

 

“Malcolm-” she began but he thrust a hand out to cut her off, waiting until he had closed the door behind them to begin again;

 

“The fuck is that?!”

 

“Malcolm, just because you keep saying it loudly doesn’t make your question any clearer!” Nicola sank to sit on the front of her desk, shoulders drawn up, frowning at him. He couldn’t possibly take issue with what she’d done, she was certain. He was just looking for something to pick a fight over, seeing as the department had been ticking over relatively innocuously  the last few days…

 

Malcolm’s face darkened, brow drawing down into a deep, dangerous frown. He glanced to his left through the glass wall of the office to see the interloper now standing at her desk, head and shoulders clearly visible, her too-young face worried as she peered at them in turn. His teeth depressed the inside of his lower lip as he met her eyes for a second that lasted a bit too long. When he rounded on Nicola again he stooped slightly, drawing nearer to her, voice now scraping a register that was softer and definitively more dangerous as he breathed,

 

“Who is she?”

 

Nicola’s eyebrows arched. Now it was her turn to flicker her gaze out at the offending blonde, who was looking increasingly concerned. The minister gave her an overly cheery smile, then looked back up at Malcolm. This time she rolled her eyes.

 

“Oh for goodness- She’s my new PA! Well, I mean, technically, she’s not really a PA. But she’s not got the experience to officially work in any advisory capacity so I had to give her some sort of title that looked innocuous enough to payroll-”

 

“What the fuck do you need a PA for?! You don’t DO anything!” Malcolm’s explosion was audible outside the office, each syllable clear as a bell. As his ranting began to pick up momentum, berating Nicola for frivolity and perpetuating her unfortunate smug-as-shit countenance, the eyes of the DoSAC support staff turned as a one to the fuel for the row. The blonde gave them an uncomfortable smile, looking as if she wished the ground would open her up and swallow her whole, til Ollie piped up,

 

“Try not to worry about it. That’s just Malcolm. Satan with a Smartphone. He despises all of us here. Not just you.”

 

“Absolutely,” Glenn chimed him, offering her a genial smile as he reclined slightly in his seat. “Malcolm’s the ultimate equal opportunist; he hates everyone.”

 

The blonde smiled, a low titter of a laugh leaving her lips. She sank back into her seat as she replied,

  
“Oh, I’m not worried. I’ve faced worse.”

 

“Speak for yourself.” Terri was hovered close to the wall of Nicola’s office as she spoke, doing a very bad job of looking inconspicuous as she leaned forwards to peer over the newspapers plastered over the lower half of the glass. “Poor Nicola. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

 

“I imagine it must be like being hit in the face by a sandblaster. Filled with drawing pins.” Glenn rose to his feet, moving to stand beside the blonde woman’s desk and peer down over the top of the partition at her, one arm resting on the board as he lowered his voice. “I’m going to give you some very valuable advice; When it’s your turn, and it surely will be, don’t look him in the eye. You’ll turn to stone.” She laughed and Glenn smiled, tipping her a quiet wink before all four pairs of eyes went back towards the office as it went ominously quiet.

 

A beat.

 

Malcolm appeared at the door, wrenching it open and storming through it, Nicola hot on his heels, red spots of anger in her cheeks as she cried,

 

“Now just you hold on a minute! Just because you’re feeling all emasculated, that I didn’t come to you for a tick of approval-”

 

The Director of Communications acted as if he simply didn’t hear her. He rounded on the blonde’s desk, Glenn taking a couple of hurried steps backwards out of his path as he flung a fuming index finger to point at her.

 

“You! Clear your desk. Your services will no longer be required by the Minister or this department.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malcolm!  You’re not sacked, pay no notice-” Nicola began as she hurried up after him, attempting to smile. It materialised as a grimace. Malcolm glared at her,

 

“Yes. She is. Get her out.”

 

“I will not! You- you have no right, Malcolm, you can’t pick my staff for me! She’s got good credentials, she-”

 

“She’s got fuck all credentials! This is a fucking PR stunt and you’re too incompetent to pull it off! This is a new low, you’re like those people who say ‘Oh I’ve got lots of multicultural, homosexual, identifying-as-a-flying-fucking-unicorn friends’!”

 

As the argument spilled over the blonde watched with huge eyes, heat beginning to creep into her face, ants prickling beneath her skin. She slowly reached up behind her left ear, then her right, touching something plastic that was discreetly camouflaged by the loose curls of her hair and all at once the world fell away to a blissful near silence. There were still low muffles, akin to  putting your head underwater at the swimming pool, and she could feel the vibration of voices in her chest, but it was much, much better. Relaxing gradually in her chair, she donned a polite smile, watching racing lips move above her. Reading frequent expletives. She picked up the mug of almost cold tea on her desk, sipped from it. Waited.

 

After perhaps another five minutes both their gazes finally turned back to her. Nicola said something. Was trying to smile again. Painful expression. She could have been chewing glass. She caught her name on the other woman’s lips.

 

“One moment.”

 

Touching behind her ears again the sound washed back and she caught a sniff of laughter from Ollie as he realised what she’d done. Nicola sighed, exasperated as she caught it too.

 

“Let’s try that again. Malcolm, this is Colette Clements. Colette, Malcolm Tucker. Who is absolutely not sacking you. Are you, Malcolm?”

 

Malcolm glared. He glared at Nicola, then he glared at Colette Clements. Colette Clements looked back. Smiled politely. You could have cut the air with a spoon.

 

“There. He’s not. See?” Nicola finally spoke, her voice tentative, unable to handle the quiet any longer.

 

“Nice to know…” Colette was still smiling. Malcolm looked at Nicola wtih a eyes that could have melted her face. Full blown Ark of the Covenant.

 

“You. Office. Now. Conference speech.” It wasn’t a request.

 

The Minister cast a quick, desperate look around her staff, a silent plea to be rescued, then reluctantly shuffled back towards the glass room. As she went Malcolm squared his attention back to the blonde. Out of sight of Nicola his expression became less sinister, tone lowering to something almost sympathetic;

 

“You shouldn’t get comfortable.”

 

Then he was gone, whisking into the office after the Minister and closing the door behind him once more, leaving Colette sitting slightly shell-shocked. The air was heavy with quiet for a stretched moment, then pierced by the sound of clapping as Ollie laughed,

  
“She lives!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colette and Malcolm almost have a conversation!
> 
> \---
> 
> I hope this is alright. I really do. I hope that I've handled it with care. I hope it makes sense. I hope it's not just a rubbishy info-dump.
> 
> If you like this please let me know. This fic is running away from me at a million miles a minute and I suspect it could turn into total pap if I am not careful.

'The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, gang aft agley' - Robert Burns, 1785

 

12:18 the door to Nicola’s office opened. Malcolm emerged alone. The Minister was still at her desk, drained and chastised.

 

Initially they’d begun drawing up the structure for the eight minute speech she was slotted for at the conference. Bullet points with time markers. Joke here. Pop at the Opposition there. Buzzy turn of phrase about public sector initiative thirty seconds after. Bare bones but the skeleton necessary to flesh out with something pretending to be Nicola Murray’s personality later.

 

It didn’t last. Malcolm’s gaze kept darting to the newest member of DoSAC, a muscle in his jaw twitching when he did. It was wrong. It was wrong and he had frankly expected better from the Minister. For all her foibles he viewed her as a generally decent human being.

 

At 11:04 as she paused working to make a quick telephone call to her mother (something about the children, standard fare, the calls had all started to blend into one another, frantic and messy), he was watching the blonde, scowling. She was doing nothing interesting. Tapping away at her keyboard, head tilted slightly to the left, attention focused on what she typing. Anyone else and he could have drop-kicked them down the stairs and sent them spiralling into the street. Piece of piss. The stick complicated matters. Couldn’t be seen victimising the disadvantaged. Would be an employment tribunal nightmare. _They sacked me because I’m disabled, m’lud!’_ Fuck.

 

“Christ, Malcolm, could you stop that? You look like you’re going to cannibalise her…”

 

Attention shook away, he threw his glower to Nicola instead. Silent. Accusing. She sucked her teeth, shrank back in her chair. Both hands lifting to gesticulate with nervous energy;

 

 

“Look, if you would just let me explain- you’re not seeing the bigger picture here-”

 

“The bigger picture? The bigger picture is you’ve pulled up a Cabana girl for yourself on the public pound, who, and I want to be very fucking clear that I’m being factual when I say this, not discriminatory, couldn’t carry a fucking tea tray!”

 

Nicola hissed at him, an index finger raised to touch her lower lip. A quick, furtive look out at the blonde. Still involved in her work. Her shoulders relaxed.

 

“I’m sorry, did you just _shush_ me?”

 

“Yes I did, keep your voice down, for pity’s sake!” Nicola looked at him, the nerves in her eyes too. She hunkered down lower over her desk to lean nearer to him, her tone full of conspiracy. “It’s a bit fucking insulting, don’t you think? I’m very aware that she’s differently-abled, thank you-”

 

“Differently-abled? Do you fucking hear yourself, woman?! Maybe I should just open up that door, let her get a whiff of the shite that’s coming out of your mouth! I reckon she could still throw a mean right hook!”

 

“Stop it! For fuck’s sake, just stop!” Nicola was leaning lower, practically laying her top half across her desk as she lunged towards him, whispers erring on panicky. “Despite your ideas to the contrary I’m not a total fucking moron. Look just- hang on a minute-” She twisted to rummage through the draw tucked under her desk. When she straightened up again she’d produced a flimsy plastic folder, flipping open the cover and twisting it across the desktop to towards him, saying as she did,

  
“Ollie found her. She was lobbying down in some miniscule constituency in Suffolk during the last by-election, tiny little place without a pot to piss in. An independent candidate, lost by a large majority of course, but she picked up some traction in the local papers. Some trustee from Help for Heroes took a bit of a shine to her, Couldn’t endorse her in any official way of course, they’re impartial, non-political stance.., but still…”

 

As she spoke Malcolm drew the folder towards himself, flicking through the first couple of pages. Newspaper clippings from a gazette. Free village paper. The sort of thing that would go under most radars. From the pages Colette smiled up at him, looking  small as she stood shoulder to shoulder with the official Party and Opposition candidates in their red and blue ties. She was a world away from them. Could have been their daughter. No wonder she didn’t pull the numbers.

 

Deft fingers turned another page, A photocopy headed with a coat of arms. Document was too small for the copier, large portions of the page left white. The writing on it was chicken-scratch. He bowed his head slightly to better read it. Discharge papers. The end of a military career. Next flip. Medical records. He shut the folder quickly. They both knew she shouldn’t have those. Don’t read them.

 

Nicola watched him as he scanned the folder, then said hesitantly,

  
“Better to have her on our side than against us… That’s what Ollie said… Proof that the Party looks after our veterans, not hang them out to dry… If she wants a new career in politics we give it to her. People _liked_ her, Malcolm… They liked what she was saying. It wasn’t a splash, of course. More of a soft plop…”

 

Malcolm inhaled slowly through his nose, mentally linking the dots together, before he lifted his gaze to Nicola. She looked worried. Actually, she looked fucking terrified.

 

“What have you done..?” His voice was so soft, in someone else’s ear it could have whispered words like a lover.

 

All the blood drained out of the Minister’s face.

 

“We have a duty to her, Malcolm, a responsibility-”

 

“You know what you’ve done? You’ve brought a ticking time bomb into this office… A remnant from a war that has become a very nasty point of embarrassment for this Party. And you’ve brought her right into the fucking spotlight. She’s not your public relations paddle-puppet. You just took a great, steaming, coiled up shit on the PM’s chest…”

 

Malcolm's voice never raised above a murmur. It  was so much worse than the shouting. Nicola swallowed.

 

“If we hadn’t brought her in, someone else would have. What if they’d picked her up in the enemy camp? With all this stuff going on with Chilcot-”

 

“That was _not_ your decision to make! You and that _fucktard_ out there, Jesus-” Malcolm paused to drag a hand down his face. His pulse boomed in his ears.

 

“She’s not a problem, Malcolm. She’s really not. She’s been perfectly happy out there, she’s nice on the phone, types eight five words a minute, she makes a good cup of tea… She’s not bent on taking over the world…” Nicola was pleading now, starting to realise the full Royal fuck-up potential of her decision. “She wanted a bit more experience. She might turn out to be good. She chose us. She didn’t have to. She could have gone to the dark side.  I was trying to extend an olive branch...”

 

“The fuck you were! You were trying to run with the big-boys and now you’re gonna have to keep her, aren’t you? You’re gonna have to fucking keep her, because if you get rid the Opposition will come sniffing around! They’ll scoop her up and present her to the world to rain down all over our fucking parade! You-” Malcolm's eyes were turning bloodshot from the full force of his rage as he slammed his hands down on Nicola’s desk. “You have plastered up posters that now say in big fat letters “Nicola Murray takes personal fucking responsibility for this administration over the war!’ That’s what you’ve done!” He slumped back into his chair, both hands over his face. Inhaled deeply through his nose, picking up the faint scent of soap on his palms.  When he lowered them he looked out of the office over at Colette. Did she know, what she represented? Nicola understood now, but did she?

 

She was the manifestation of the worst mistake the Party had made in the last nine years. Right there. In their office. With her fucking walking stick. A technicolour dazzle of a fuck-up so far beyond the realm of recovery that there was now an official inquiry.

 

 As he brooded he felt a fresh wave of anger broil up within him, building in intensity as he watched her staple a few papers together. It was possible that she had a master-plan. Take down the offending regime from the inside from her harmless post as a personal assistant. But equally possible was that she might just be getting on with her life. Nice, safe desk job. And Nicola Murray had pulled her out to parade her in front of the press as her new darling, her token veteran who was on the Party’s side…

 

“I like her, Malcolm…”

 

He didn’t want to look at the Minister again. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it. Seemed she was warming to the way of Whitehall after all…

 

Colette was looking over at Ollie. Smiling. Ollie was smiling too, saying something to her. Smug prick. Must be so fucking pleased with himself, orchestrating all this. Able to look over at her every day and have a celebratory wank under the desk that he’d got her in. Cunt.

 

Every nerve burning, he dragged his gaze back to Nicola. She quietly drew the folder towards herself. Slipped it away back into the drawer.

 

“You better fucking like her. Because now you’re stuck with her.”

 

12:18 he left her office.

 

Colette was not at her desk. Probably at lunch. On the move Malcolm made a phone-call. Sam. Get him everything she could on Colette Clements. Every newspaper article, record of service, everything. Hung up.

 

12:22 pushed open the fire exit. Stormed behind the bins.

 

Colette. Stood rolling a cigarette, her walking stick crooked over one elbow, dangling off the ground as she leaned back against the shelter, hips tilted to plant her weight through her right leg. Gaze cast down on her fingers as she concentrated.

 

A hand shot out and snatched the roll-up away, tossing it on the ground.

 

“You can stop that shit for a start!”

 

She flinched. Looked up at him, startled, those huge eyes wide with shock.

 

“Excuse me-!”

 

“You’re excused.” His chest was heaving. Worst possible time to see her. Should have thought she’d be down here. He twisted the unfinished cigarette into the pavement with his foot. “Go and get yourself some fucking patches.”

 

Colette gave him an incredulous look, the stick slipping back into her hand to touch the ground, her weight relaxing into it.

 

“Sorry, are you my dad?!”

 

He turned. Jaw taut. Hold it in. Hold it in. Not her fault. Probably. She met his gaze. Steadfast. Cross. Not full flung anger. Just cross.

 

“You’re stepping into a very big world, you know that, don’t you? When was the last time you saw an MP with a fucking snout in their hand? You want to be taken seriously? Stop that shit. Now.”

 

“I’m not an MP.”

 

“You’re fucking clapped onto one. You’re going to find yourself on the world fucking stage soon, darlin’! Bottom feeders are gonna be all over you like fucking herpes! Your arse belongs to Murray, Murray belongs to me. Do as you’re told!”

 

Fuck. Hadn’t held it in. She wasn’t looking cross now. She was looking furious. Smooth cheeks turning pink. Fuck’s sake, Tucker…

 

“I’m sorry, what exactly have I done to upset you? You’ve been a total bastard to me all day.” Even her voice was young. Sweet and a bit funny, the way she swore. On another day he would have chuckled.

 

“Well, you’re fucking breathing for a start.” He began pacing. _Christ, Malcolm, reel it in..._ A hand scrubbed through his salt and pepper hair, then dropped to his side as he looked over at her, steeling himself. “Sorry. Sorry, that was uncalled for… I- You’re being used, you know that, right?”

 

Colette peered up at him, the anger petering out of her expression the instant he apologised. Must have a high tolerance for bollocks.

 

“Well, yes… Obviously,” she replied. Malcolm cocked his head and she gave him a small, knowing smile. “But I’ll take what I can get, to get my foot in the door… I don’t have an Oxbridge education, like some. Can I have a ciggie now, or are you going to shout at me some more? This is my lunch break...”

 

He stared at her. Almost lost for words. Almost.

 

“Get some fucking patches.”

 

She smiled. Radiantly. He thought about smiling back, but didn’t. His pocket rang, phone buzzing against his hip. Swiping it out, he mouthed as he lifted it to his ear ‘You’ll be seeing me again very soon’, and in a whirl of action was gone, leaving Colette to shake her head to herself and smirk, pulling her tobacco pouch of her pocket as she heard the door bang closed behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm running on caffeine and wishful thinking, I hope that this is worth reading. 
> 
> Thank you to all of you who've been so sweet with your feedback so far. I'm sort of blown away actually.

'It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour' - Robert Burns, 1786

 

Malcolm came back to a dossier on his desk that afternoon. Sam’s writing on the front, Colette’s name printed in her neat hand. He made sure to thank her. Tucked it away in a drawer for the time being. Ignored it as he got on with his day. At six he sent Sam on her way, promised to buy her coffee the following morning for the quick turnaround on the file. Shut the door to his office. Fired out a few emails. Started peeling a satsuma as he cast his eyes over the evening headlines on the BBC website. 

 

At just gone half past the hour he glanced down at his drawer. Stared at the handle thoughtfully. Slowly sliding it open he pulled the greenish-grey folder out and flipped it open, starting to read, picking his way through Colette Clements’ life backwards. 

 

An hour later, when he’d got five years deep he closed the folder again, feeling slightly sick. It took a lot to induce nausea in him. He’d developed a huge tolerance against physical responses over the years. Things that would turn most people’s stomachs he barely batted an eyelid over, he’d mopped up so much shit. 

 

Delving into Colette’s past however he was experiencing a rare and intense bout of regret. Funny taste in his mouth, tang of cooper. 

 

He got to his feet, taking the file with him. Fed it into the shredder. Knew everything he needed to, for today. Didn’t want to read any more.

 

* * *

 

 

The first week of September went in a flurry. Final mobilisations for the conference sent the Party into a collective whirl, skeleton staff being put in place to keep the cogs turning. Nicola found herself warming to her new assistant more and more as she came into her own. Despite having not done much of anything in the way of clerical work before she had taken to it with gusto, a sense of discipline learned in a former life meaning she was all over the Minister’s diaries, telephone calls, emails. She even went and ferried Ella home on a day that she threw a particularly stonking wobbler at her mother, meaning she then refused to be pick her up from school. Colette had, upon hearing this news, dutifully taken a cab down to the school, picked her up and sat with her at the house until Nicola had eventually managed to detangle herself from affairs of state and gotten home just before nine. She’d even managed to coax a bit of homework out of the sulking eleven year-old, bribed with a share-size bar of Galaxy. 

 

Nicola was grateful for Colette. Malcolm had blown things out of all proportion regarding her. She was grateful for her patience. Her time management. Her eternal optimism that being outside direct Party management gave her. Grateful for her well-timed delivery of coffee the morning they were headed to Eastbourne. 

 

She was already  at Nicola’s desk when the Minister walked in at 7:54, her stick hooked over her elbow out of the way as she stood arranging a clip-file of papers, hole-punching a couple of sheets. Looked up with a warm smile as she heard the other woman come in, pointed at a paper cup holder with two red Costa cups stood in it. 

 

“Morning, Secretary of State. Yours is the taller one, on the left. Hazelnut latte, extra shot. There’s a couple of packets of Canderel underneath it if you want them.”

 

“Oo, you star,” Nicola sighed, feeling the knot of anxiety she’d been carrying over the weekend ahead relax a smidgen at her PA’s greeting. She shed her coat, setting her briefcase down on the desk before popping the lid off her coffee. She never asked Colette to carry it  for her. There were some lines she wouldn’t cross. Stirring a packet of powdered sweetener into the latte, she afforded herself a slurp, eyes closed for a moment, then looked over at the blonde. “You’re a bit early.”

 

“Ah, well, I thought I’d get here before Ollie, stop him interfering. I’m just putting your itinerary together for the weekend, thought you’d like it on paper. For peace of mind.” She flashed Nicola another smile. Hole punched the last stack of sheets, then slipped them into the folder and held it out towards her. “All there.  When you’re being Mrs Social Butterfly I’ll be sure to waft it at you so you don’t miss anything.”

 

Nicola took the folder and flicked through it, scanning over the carefully typed tables of seminars and presentations, timed to the last minute. Thank God for Colette. She took another sip of coffee as she read, then glanced up at the blonde, chuckling.

 

“Social butterfly. You don’t know me very well yet, do you?”. 

 

“I think I’m getting there.” Colette grinned, then held her hand out, offering to take the file back. The Minister handed it off to her. Cricked her neck a couple of times. “Your car’s due to arrive at half eight. Ollie and Glenn are coming in another one, it’ll just be us. You can have a bit of time to decompress before we arrive.” She shuffled through the documents left on the table, filing a few bits away, slightly unsteady-looking on her feet as she walked without her stick, leaving it leant against Nicola’s desk. Locked the cabinet when she was done, then opened up a brown envelope, the only item left on the desk-top. She fished out several lanyards with plastic wallets containing ID cards inside. 

 

“We’re under strict instructions to wear these at all times. Apparently they’re going to be bag-searching at random too,” she said as she held three of the black straps out to her boss.

 

“Really? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be frisked.” Nicola smirked, dropping the pasess around her neck, watching as Colette put on her own. “You don’t mind, do you? Coming along, I mean. I feel like I’m taking the piss a bit…”

 

“Don’t be daft, of course I don’t. I’m being paid, aren’t I? Anyway, I might find a Junior Minister to cozy up to. That Dan Miller, I could climb him like a tree.” She gave her a wolfish smile. Nicola almost snorted into her coffee cup.

 

“That’s not funny!” 

 

“You laughed.” Colette grinned and pulled on her coat, then tucked the folder under her arm. Her coffee went in one hand, cane in the other. Used to juggling around the mobility aid. “Are you ready?”

 

“As I’ll ever be. Why do I get the feeling that I’m hurtling towards the ground having been pushed from a window?” Nicola tugged her own coat back on, frowning as she did. Picked up her case, hugged her coffee close to her chest as she left the room, Colette following close behind as the blonde said kindly,

  
“It’ll be fine. It’ll be fun! I mean, speaking at the conference, it’s basically like being a rockstar in the Party, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh yes, I feel just like Kurt Cobain…”

 

* * *

 

Late afternoon. Past reasonable lunchtime. Colette had managed to shove a sad looking cheese sandwich Nicola’s way at one point and was now watching quietly while she went into melt-down over the poaching of her People’s Champion, making a cup of chamomile tea towards the back of the hotel room. She waited until the Minister had finished jumping up and down on the cushion, then silently moved to set it on the coffee table near her. Fought the urge to smile. It wasn't funny, not really. She was clearly very upset… 

 

It was a bit funny.

 

There was a rush of movement around her. People pacing in panic. Voices creeping up to higher registers. She stayed very still and very quiet, watching the shit storm unfold. Best not to get in the way.

 

As Glenn stormed out, baying for Malcolm’s blood, she risked stepping forwards, hand reaching out to touch Nicola lightly on the elbow while the other woman slumped against the doorframe of the bathroom.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help..?” She did like the Minister. Properly liked her. She was a bit out of touch and had anxiety crippling enough that really it warranted professional treatment. But she was a good sort, Colette was sure.

 

“I don’t think there is, no. This always happens to me. I mean, I have a really, genuinely good idea and then Malcolm Tucker poises himself to just piss all over it!” Nicola looked over at her, dark shadows under her eyes, somewhere between angry tears and a hysterical smile. 

 

“There must be something I can do… I could push him down the stairs?” Colette gave her a sympathetic look, slight lift to the corners of her mouth as she smiled tentatively. “Or, um… You could put me out there? I bet I could do a passable Geordie accent. I used to watch Byker Grove!” 

 

This received a dry little laugh. Deflated, but grateful for her efforts.

 

“What about a brandy? I bet there’s some cheap Courvoisier knock off in the mini bar. Want me to have a look?” Colette pat the Minister’s forearm as she spoke, Nicola letting out a deep sigh.

 

“Oh, go on then. I mean my speech is already fucked, who would even notice if I slurred?” 

 

“Alright. You just erm… Take a breath and I’ll be right back.” She straightened, flashed Ollie a warning look that was a silent, strict instruction not to let Nicola tip over the edge while she wasn’t looking, then went to rummage through the fun-size fridge in the corner, checking the labels on the miniatures. Back to the room, she heard Ollie hurry out, something about back-up. Figured. By now Colette was beginning to understand he had the empathetic ability of a whelk, no way he could actually cope with trying to calm the Minister down. 

 

She finally laid her fingers on a tiny bottle of cognac, drew it out. Unscrewed the cap and offered it open necked to the other woman. Make it as easy as possible for her. Nicola seized upon it and took a hurried swallow, then grimaced.

  
“Urch. That is revolting.” 

 

“Oh come on, you put away Rescue Remedy like it’s going out of fashion! It’s the same thing, just without the parma violet flavour.” Colette smiled, then moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Minister, gently patting her forearm. “It’ll be fine, Mrs Murray... Really. Malcolm can’t just pinch your guest…”

 

“You can tell you’re still new at this-” 

 

She was cut off by Glenn coming back into the room, head tipped back, blood rivulets running over his hand as he pressed a handkerchief over his face. 

 

“Oh my God! Glenn, what happened?!”

 

“I don’t think Malcolm saw my point of view.” The handkerchief was lowered, revealing his rapidly swelling face. “I got punched…”

 

Nicola grayed.   
  


“Oh, that is a lot of blood…”

 

She and Ollie were hurriedly guiding Glenn to sit in a chair. Colette blinked, for a split second feeling as though she’d been launched into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Instinct took over with her next heartbeat though, the befuddled Minister and team doing a pitiful job of first aid. She turned to dart out of the room, walking stick tapping rhythmically on the carpet as she almost jogged down the hallway of the hotel, intent with purpose. After a couple of turns in the corridor she found what she was looking for. 

 

She grabbed one of the large paper cups, filling it up from the ice dispenser until it was piled just over the rim.Spinning, she carried it back to Glenn’s room, hurrying to Nicola’s side. As she reached her she spoke quietly but with assertion;

  
“Give me one of those napkins. Quick.” DoSAC’s Secretary of State gave her a surprised look, seemingly unaware she’d materialised there, then did as she requested, passing her one of the paper towels raided from the mini bar. Colette tipped a handful of the icecubes into it, twisted it into a pliable, cool bundle. Leaned over to slowly press it over Glenn’s nose with one hand, the other resting on the back of his neck to encourage him to lean forwards, stick falling unheeded to the floor. Voice gentle but persuasive;

 

“Hold this here for a good ten minutes. The cold will constrict your blood vessels, make the bleeding stop..”

 

“I’m assuming we’ve lost our People’s Champion, yeah?”

 

Glenn’s hand moved to take over holding the makeshift ice-pack from hers.

 

“Well, it felt like a no to me. Did it feel like a no to you, Glenn?”

 

As the conversation span back to work Colette quietly stepped back, knowing she wasn’t needed. Intervene in the moment of crisis but then back up and get out of the way of the bigger players. It’s what she was trained to do after all. She turned, stooped to pick up her stick and set it aside, the room feeling too small to use it for now. Recovered the bloody hanky and tissues scattered about. Carried them to the bathroom, dumped them in the bin. Washed her hands with red hot water, scrubbing under her nails. Just in case.

 

Malcolm’s voice.

 

Blonde head peeked out of the bathroom. Saw him shaking his hand out as he talked. Glenn was definitely the worse out of the pair but he’d caught himself too. Serve him right. His knuckles were swelling as he dropped it to his side. Could be a hairline crack there, the colour they were turning. 

 

She slipped out of the bathroom, tucked herself out of the way to look out of the window at the car park below. Nicola had plenty of back-up, she was surplus to requirements. 

 

Rowing. 

 

God, they were fucking noisy.Worse than an episode of Eastenders. Best not turn her implants off, Nicola was quite hot on that now.

 

She glanced back over her shoulder as she heard Malcolm apologising. Felt herself soften slightly, when she caught him hugging Glenn out of the corner of her eye, the two of them patting one another stiffly on the back. Boys fighting over their toys. Just  _ big _ boys. Stronger than they realised.

 

Malcolm wincing as he caught his hand, doing his best to hide it...

 

As the rapid, desperate paddling to try and stop themselves from drowning went on in the room around her, Colette folded her arms over her chest, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. She wished Nicola would send her on some menial errand, just to get out of the room. 

 

Malcolm was shaking his hand out again. Knuckles and fingers angry purple. 

 

She moved with the utmost care to retrieve the paper cup and what was left of the ice. Voices washed around her, bleeding into one another. Too much noise. 

 

Inconspicuously as she could she slipped out of the room, seeking some respite in the hallway.  Leaning back against the wall she sucked on an ice cube, took a deep breath through her nose. Another. By the third she felt better. A little bit of space did the world of good.

 

Malcolm appeared. Grimaced as he pulled the door open. In pain. 

 

He swept past her as though she were invisible. It was sort of refreshing, actually. At work she got those awkward, unwarranted glances of sympathy. She hated that.

 

She turned to go after him. Bugger. Walking stick was back in the bedroom. No way she would be able to keep up, not the way he was tearing up the carpet. Well, it was too late now.

 

“Mr Tucker!”

 

He stopped. Turned around, eyebrows lifted. Colette wondered how often people called him Mr.

As she approached him, he in turn started back towards her. Closing the gap so she didn’t have so far to go. An unexpected moment of consideration.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

His voice was taut. Fracturing with stress.

 

“Sorry, I just… Here.” She held the cup of ice out towards him. Nodded at his hand. “You might want to get that checked.” She was calm. Quiet. Very polite. Malcolm stared at the cup. Colette watched him, then added softly,

 

“It’s not for looking at…” Risked a whisper of a smile. Stupid really. Stupid to even bother. But old habits died hard. 

 

“Right.” His fingers dipped to retrieve one of the cubes. Subtly pressed it to his knuckles, hands folded in front of him to disguise it. Stared at her, intent, hawk-eyed. Expression totally unreadable. The blonde swallowed and gestured back over her shoulder with her thumb.

 

“I should get back. She’s probably turned into a puddle by now. No thanks to you.” 

 

“Right.”

 

Monosyllabic Malcolm. That was a new one. 

 

She nodded. Tiny, cursory smile.

 

“Good luck, then, with.. All this…” Turned away so she didn’t have to be under that gaze that could peel back skin anymore. Started down the corridor towards Glenn’s room, praying to God above as she went that her limp looked smaller than it felt.

 

Malcolm stared after her, hand throbbing as he held the ice to it, at a loss as to what had just happened. He didn’t have time for this. Duggan. He had to flay Duggan. He could pick the bones of his encounter with Colette later. 

 

He turned on his heel and resumed his hammering path through the hotel, water starting to drip through his fingers as he moved. Maybe this was just what going mad felt like. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long days take some filters off. Colette and Malcolm talk frankly. 
> 
> Thank you as usual to you all for kind comments and kudos. I'm a feedback junkie and appreciate every single one so much. I hope that you enjoy this chapter, It took a while. According to a few Guardian articles I've read party conferences devolve into mass piss-ups and karaoke, so, you know... >.>

“The wide world is all before us- But  a world without a friend.”  - Robert Burns 1787

 

1.am. 

 

Colette sat at a table strewn with remnants of people’s drinks and paper plates, halves of peanuts scattered across the tissue tablecloth, crimson balloons on curly ribbons tied to a weight in the centre. A glass of red wine at her elbow, half empty bottle in front of her. Watching across the room with a fond, slightly weary smile. Nicola was dancing. Had been for the last hour. Amongst the throes of other Party members, traders, off duty-journalists, (after 11 it was fair game and it seemed to be an unspoken rule they let their hair down, so everyone else could do the same). She was pissed. Part of the majority who were. Finally able to let herself relax, now the hard part was over. Her speech had gone down well, despite the accidental omission of a page, (must kick Ollie in the shin for that). Her assistant found herself proud of her. The woman who’d taken a crack at her after the old guard she’d campaigned against back in Suffolk had laughed right in her face and suggested maybe she should go home because wasn’t it past her bedtime?  

 

She hadn’t needed to invite her to the reception either. But she had. 

 

Colette was under no illusions. She knew they weren’t friends. It was an employer/employee relationship at best. Something less pleasant at worst. She paid enough attention to know that a certain inquiry was looming over the entire Cabinet. One that people like her had intense investment in, as did the Party. It’d been opened to the public. No hiding behind closed doors. Some individuals would be sweating lead… She was a token. A meat-shield. She hadn’t needed to be told that she was being used.

 

Nicola had come to feel like an ally, though, despite this. They were a team. Hm. Perhaps a bit too equal.  Not a team. They were an alloy. She was there to make Nicola stronger. Happy to do so, for the time being. The pay was quite good. The hours sort of  lousy. But she liked Nicola’s idealism. The wispy, half-formed good intentions that she wrapped in buzz-words because things had to be dressed prettily. She might not be the best at the application of her principles, but at least she had principles. 

 

It was a good environment too, DoSAC. A mish-mash of political culture and policy that was giving her the chance to learn by osmosis. In a couple of years, if she lasted there that long, maybe she’d be ready to have a go again. Maybe she’d get the chance to grind her smarmy constituency rivals’ fat heads into the pavement… 

 

She laughed as she watched Nicola launch herself into the Macarena. Would she kill her tomorrow, if she snapped a photo with her phone? Probably 

 

Lifting her glass, she took a sip of wine, tired but content. She could feel the low thrum of the music’s bass vibrating through her chest and her stomach. Tapped her foot in rhythm to it. No melody but she remembered the tune from her childhood. School discos. 

 

Ash blue eyes trailed Nicola as she jumped a quarter turn. Hands square on hips, beginning the cycle of the dance again, part of the tight packed group of conference goers moving in almost-rhythm with one another. Watched her for a moment with a  low chuckle, then slid over the other dancers, trying to pick out any faces she might be learning to recognise by now. Away from the dancefloor, over the bar, littered with empty cups and revellers hanging off it. Slid along the couple canoodling against the far wall. Back across the sea of other tables, one or two with someone asleep face down on them. Some balloons sinking, their helium giving up the ghost. Bobbing across tabletops and onto the floor. Brightly coloured disco lights bouncing off their rubber surfaces and strangers’ faces. She should go to bed…

 

Malcolm stood leaning against the wall by the door out of the hall. Arms folded across his chest to embrace himself, palms planted on the outside of his upper arms. Bowtie undone to hang loose either side of his collar, top button unpopped. Watching too, on the outside looking in. No smile. The frown she’d come to think of as just his resting expression nowhere to be seen. His gaze sort of faraway. Tired. 

 

Colette’s head tilt a little to one side as she watched him, brows lifting. Maybe he’d been at something higher profile for the evening but it’d already finished. Judging by the tuxedo he wasn’t intent on spending the evening at the congenial piss-up where he was stood now. 

 

She swivelled through her hip in her chair and reached out an arm over the back, waggling her fingers. After a moment she caught his attention across the five or six tables between them. He looked. Nodded. She smiled. Held up her hand, fingers splayed, knuckle side facing him, head cocked towards her fingertips. A wordless question. He watched. Took a beat, then cottoned on. His own palms left his arms and he held one hand up, the one used to clout Glenn. Pumped his fingers in and out of a fist a few times, then curled and uncurled his fingers in a Mexican wave of motion, showing her their full range of movement. Another nod.  _ It’s fine.  _ Fresh smile from the blonde. Slight incline of her head in reply.  _ Good. _ Peered at one another across the room, the silent conversation already over, giving way to creeping discomfort that came with extended eye-contact. 

 

Colette looked away first. Took a mouthful of wine, her eyes back on Nicola. She’d found Ollie while the PA’s attention had been diverted, the two of them engaged in some very inebriated conversation that involved a lot of exaggerated gesticulations and hugging. All slip-ups earlier in the day seemingly forgiven. The Minister was a magnanimous drunk, apparently. 

 

Didn’t immediately become aware she wasn’t alone. The vibrations pulsed through the floor and her insides, the multi-coloured disco lights, hundreds of people in the room. Sensory overload. 

 

Malcolm had planted himself squarely in a chair on the next table over from hers, made a vague attempt at a polite greeting over the cacophonous disco music. Felt he owed her a pleasantry or two after earlier on in the day. Honestly just grateful to see someone he wasn’t directly responsible for or answerable to. Too wired to consider going to bed, his jaw aching from the perpetual, unconscious clenching throughout the day. 

 

There was no response from the blonde. Not even a glance. He frowned, about to take it as a slight, then remembered. In the papers Sam had sourced for him… He leaned a couple of inches to one side to get a better view. Scrutinised her. There. Cleverly camouflaged by her hairstyle, trailing curls slipping from the twist that was pinned away from her face almost covering the hardware completely. But if you really looked, you could see them. Flesh coloured pieces, moulded around the shell of her ear, coil of wire vanishing into the body of her hair to a transmitter somewhere buried in blonde tresses. No lights on. She couldn’t hear him. Must be nice. 

 

He thought about just getting up and leaving. She’d be none the wiser. He could get up before she ever realised, leave her smiling there, content in her own world. 

 

She looked over at him. Well. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, then. 

 

Startled to see him, she caught herself after a moment, then smirked. 

 

“Slumming it?” 

 

He barely caught it. She wasn’t bothering to raise her voice over the music. No need for her to.

 

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d come round up the kiddies out past their curfew.” Colette watched him intently as he spoke. Reading his lips. Odd feeling, being watched like that. 

 

“Party pooper. Can I offer you a rubbish glass of wine?” She gestured to the open bottle in front of her. He shook his head. Smirked in return, despite himself, internal constrictions easing just a little. 

 

“Tempting, but no thanks. Still on the clock. Just thought I would pop over for a moment. But no rest for the diabolical.” 

 

Colette stared at him, silent, then flashed him a sheepish smile, replying as she shook her head,

 

“Sorry, you’re going to have to slow down a bit. I didn’t catch all of that. It’s your accent, sorry!” As she spoke she gestured to her bottom lip, youthful face looking even younger as embarrassment tinged her features. The smirk toying at the corners of Malcolm's mouth vanished. Colette peered over at him, suddenly looking stricken, then said quickly,

  
“It’s alright, Mr Tucker, really. You don’t have to talk to me. I know it’s a pain in the arse. Don’t worry about it.” 

 

He frowned. Deep, drawing stark lines between his eyebrows. Stood, then moved to help himself to the seat next to hers at her table, grabbing it underneath with both hands to swivel it so he was facing her. 

 

“Better?”

 

As he spoke he made sure to look her straight in the eye so she could see his face clearly as possible in the low lighting. She looked astonished. Nodded slowly. 

“Yes. Just… Just a bit slower. Sorry.”

 

“Stop saying sorry.”

 

“Sorry…”

 

She grinned. Taking the piss.

  
“What the fuck did I just say?” The smirk was back, in his eyes. Colette relaxed, her shoulders loosening. He watched, bright coloured lights skimming over her face, taking her in with her big eyes and overt youngness, then spoke again, not bothering to raise his voice;

 

“What are you doing here, hm?”

 

“Um... Nicola asked me to come?” Her head tilted, gaze quizzical, looking for him to specify, fingers still resting on the stem of her wineglass on the table. 

 

“No, I don’t mean here, I just mean- It was Fallujah, wasn’t it?”

 

Her smile flickered.

 

“Have you been checking up on me?”

 

“It’s my job.”

 

“I’m not sure it is. I’m  fairly certain that it’s the Minister’s. She didn’t ask for a reference.” The corners of her mouth lifted once more, though a bit too stiffly. “I’ve got a question for you, actually.”

 

Malcolm felt some muscle twitch unseen beneath his eye. Gestured a hand towards her, inviting her to go ahead. 

 

“Where did  _ you _ serve?”

 

“Beg pardon..?” His brows drew together, Colette looking up at him, her fresh face deadly serious.

 

“You’ve got that look about you. You learn to recognise your own after a while. The ones who have fought.” 

 

She held his gaze as he stared at her, features open as though the question had indeed been a genuine one. Malcolm sniffed. 

 

“Your gaydar’s off. Might want to get it re-tuned.”

 

“Jesus, sorry… I really thought-” Her teeth grazed her lower lip, eyes momentarily concerned, too slow to stop the look slipping across her face. She was studying him, making no bid to be subtle about it. Remembered herself a few seconds later. Looked away to sip from her glass and  glance over at Nicola. Slow-dancing with Ollie. Jesus Christ.

 

Malcolm frowned, watching her watching them. Did he really look like that? Should he be insulted? Probably not, seeing as it came out of her mouth. She should know. That made it worse though, really. It’d been asked from a place of sincerity. He was stretched so thin that he looked as if he’d come through an actual warzone and she’d spotted it. 

 

“You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time. All else is grandiose romanticism or politics.” Colette looked back at him as she spoke, her face sheepish, carrying the lingering discomfort from the question she’d asked him. 

 

“Charles Bukowski.” Malcolm arched one brow, finding the quotation carried a sort of idealism and naivety when it was said in her voice. 

 

“I went into the Armed Forces to save people. Field medic. When I couldn’t do that anymore, I had to find something else. You want to know why I’m here; I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. Politics has become a dirty word. People think it’s all detached, elitist Eton-knob-jockeys. They’ve sort of got a point.” She paused. Smiled. Difficult to see in the disco-lights but there was colour in her cheeks. “Nicola offered me a way in. It’s not much right now, but Superman was Clark Kent for years…”

 

“You want to be a superhero?”

 

“Oh, fuck off!” 

 

She laughed, warm and bright. Malcolm smiled too, smaller. Quietly touched by her words, not that he’d ever say as such. The lack of cynicism was refreshing. She’d be stamped all over, sure, but for now she was safe in her pipedreams... 

 

Colette had turned her attention to the dancefloor, fingertips tapping on her wineglass. Nicola looked as if she were one more drink away from being catatonic on the floor, Ollie mostly holding her up at this point. Looked back to Malcolm.  

 

“I should get her to bed. We’ve still got two more days of this yet. She’s going to die.”

 

“Pretty certain you’re not being paid to get her in her jim-jams.” 

 

“That’s just how good I am.” She smiled up at him, all warmth and good humour. Enjoying his company. 

 

“Just make sure you lock the door. I can’t be having her streaking or the like, the Guardian will shit their collective pants.” 

 

“I can’t make any promises.” Another of those laughs, light as air. She pushed the glass away from herself, abandoning the last of her wine. Basically sober aside from a pleasant warmth in her cheeks and ears. As she stood Malcolm reached out to lightly touch her elbow with his fingertips and get her attention, wanting her to understand him. She looked down at him, brows lifted at the contact. 

 

“Thank you. For earlier. The ice.” 

 

“Oh. No problem.” A slightly awkward smile.

 

“Not my finest hour.” He stood, looking down at her as she shifted to grab her walking stick, still holding his gaze so she could talk to him. 

 

“Maybe not. People react differently under pressure, though. You should try and get some sleep.” The way she said it made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion, more of an order, though it was given kindly.  He shrugged one shoulder. Maybe he’d snatch an hour or two. He’d be up by five though, to start again. He’d have to run mostly on caffeine and sheer bloody-mindedness. Colette seemed to know it too, the way she looked at him. 

 

“Try not to work too had, Mr Tucker.”

 

“Malcolm. M’not a fucking octogenarian yet.”

 

“Malcolm.” She smiled, touched the outside of his elbow for the briefest moment, then turned away, starting across the hall to collect Nicola from the dancefloor. He watched her go, exhaling slowly through his nose, hands slipping into his trouser pockets. He’d have to keep an eye on her, if he could find the time to spare one. Try and make sure that fragile optimism and good nature didn’t get ground down too fast. Though why it mattered, he couldn’t say. Maybe… Maybe just to be able to exchange a few words with someone who didn’t seem to instantly despise him, (even if that sort of thing was his own doing, fucked if he needed friends...  _ God, you sad bastard…) _

 

She wrangled Nicola up, started towards the door with her, one arm around the other woman’s waist. Smiled at him across the space as they walked, mouthed ‘Go to bed!’ while the Minister chattered at her. He shrugged at her. Saw her laugh and say it again. Then push the door open with her hip, vanishing through it with her Secretary of State. Felt a twist of something in his chest. Could have probably talked longer, if given the chance. Would have been… Been… Would have been different.

 

He sat, knuckle pressed to his lower lip, watching the party. An island, drifting as he watched the world going on around him. 

 

_ ‘There are worse things _

_ than being alone _

_ but it often takes _

_ decades to realize this _

_ and most often when you do _

_ it's too late _

_ and there's nothing worse _

_ than too late.’ _

 

Fucking Bukowski.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm extends Colette a small professional courtesy...
> 
> As usual thank you all so much for the kudos and the comments, I'm such a feedback junkie, I really am. I properly love seeing my inbox filled up ^^ I really appreciate people taking their time to leave their responses to my wafflings, gives me the warm and fuzzies.
> 
> Hope you all like the new chapter!

"Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess." - Robert Burns, 1788

 

Late September. The air was starting to turn chilly already, the mornings giving way to London smog that clung around the ankles of anyone up early enough to see it. 7.09 and Colette was stood in a coffee shop, ordering the biggest bucket of double shot latte for her boss that she could. It was already all over the news, that The Sun, a staunch, long serving supporter of the Party had pulled its backing in a whirl of petulant dyspepsia and promised it’s loyalty to the Opposition instead. Granted, Colette liked to think most free-thinking adults wouldn’t choose to wipe their arse with The Sun, but the pap still sold and amongst the working masses it was popular. Tumbling into rightwing flag waving all over it’s overly-punctuated front page was the equivalent of getting a running kick in the nadgers on the lead up to an election year. 

 

She handed over her loyalty card and a crisp ten pound note, yawned as she took her change, frowned thoughtfully as she waited for her goats cheese panini. Nicola hadn’t text her yet. Perhaps she was too far down the hysteria phone-tree, the Minister might already be in frantic meetings with her peers about how on Earth they smiled their way through the tabloid assault. Still. Get in early, make sure her desk was clear, her phone was set to busy, her emails organised and flagged in order of priority. The PM would be the prime target today, but it’d trickle down fast enough, a drip-feed of dysentery. Humiliated. Scorned. The working people abandoning the Party that was meant to defend their very rights. Better pop into a pharmacy, pick up some Gaviscon and a pack of paracetamol. She occasionally suspected Nicola might be brewing up an ulcer.

 

She took the cup holder and paper bag containing her breakfast, paused at the end of the counter to rearrange so she could carry everything in one hand. Pushed the door open with her hip, navigated her way around to start walking down the streets, already heaving with commuters. London never slept, she’d learned that by now. Always working, always panicking about one thing or another, every moment seemingly the last. The tube felt like it was in the wake a perpetual disaster, the way people swarmed through it. As though the world itself would end if they didn’t crush their way through the doors in that instant. She was fast becoming like them. After all, she’d seen the news at 6:32 that morning about the paper as she’d shuffled about in her pajamas and by 6:50 she was out the door.

 

With well practiced skill she took a sip from her coffee as she walked, negotiating the double cup holder while managing not to tip it all down herself. Glanced over at the Thames, almost within the reach of her fingertips as she made her way over Westminster Bridge, Parliament looming ahead of her. Good God, sometimes it was still so surreal. Even in the looming shadow of collective Party pants-wetting that would be ahead of them today, she was so bloody  _ happy _ . Five years ago, drugged almost to the point of opiate overdose in her hospital bed, she hadn’t dared hope her life would mean anything again. But London. Westminster. Even if the Party was circling the drain and she got sucked down with it, she was a part of something that mattered. The MOD might be as far away as the sun for her right now, but five years ago it was the edge of the Universe. 

 

She went for another mouthful of coffee, getting mostly foam through the small oval hole punched into the lid of her cup, digitised hearing picking up a familiar Scottish burr. It took a moment to pinpoint the location, realising it was coming from her left, on the other side of the road, each word clear as a bell. Never ceased to amaze her, how her implants could pick up a voice from seemingly miles away. 

 

She glanced over, seeing Malcolm pounding the pavement as if it’d personally offended him, on the phone, his face drawn as he spoke rapidly, a pile of newspapers tucked under his arm. Even from the other side of the bridge as they walked parallel to one another, Colette could tell he hadn’t slept.

 

“‘Twelve years and this Government's lost it’s way’. All over the fucking front page, in every fucking newsagents, Tesco Metro, in the shitter of the fucking train! I’m telling you, I’m gonna have that editor, that Pascoe Watson prick strapped to a fucking table and taken up the pipe by an Olympic shot putter with Bengay for fucking lube!”

 

He was already outstripping her, stride longer and swifter, a thin, slicing figure in the grey light of early morning. Headed to Number 10, slipstream of his own rage carrying him. Colette felt a flicker of sympathy. He was probably going to have the most shit day out of anyone in the Party, the Prime Minister included… 

 

* * *

 

 

Colette sat on a wooden chair outside the Cabinet Room, the surreal sensation she’d experienced crossing the bridge that morning now compounded a thousand times. She hadn’t expected her first visit to Downing Street to be like this; Nicola too nervy to leave DoSAC without her that morning, though she served literally no purpose, not even permitted to attend the Cabinet meeting to take notes for her. She suspected that the Minister might have held her hand if given half the chance. 

 

The chair was too hard, an antique, not built for comfort. There were four of them lined up against the wall. She was perched on the one on the end, furthest from the door. Nicola’s briefcase in her lap, hands folded on top of it. Awestruck by where she was. Though, she had imagined it would be bigger. 

 

She’d been sat there coming up three hours. Too wary of where she was to even risk checking her phone. At one point a passing brunette, sweet faced, couldn’t have been much older than her, had paused as she passed her in the corridor, offered to make her a cup of tea with a kind smile. Colette had politely declined. Best just to sit still and patient and invisible until Nicola emerged. Mind you, by midday she could have murdered a biscuit.

 

She leaned over to rummage through her handbag at her feet. Popped a square piece of gum out of a blister pack and slipping it between her teeth as she sat up. After a few chews the bitter taste of nicotine flooded her mouth, her nose wrinkling.  Her attention  wandered, eyes casting one way to peer down the corridor, then the other. There was the constant low murmur of voices, coming through the walls, words not discernible, but perpetual, the cogs all turning, the entire building reeling from The Sun’s revelation. You could taste it on the air.

 

Her mouth began to tingle and she tucked the gum under her tongue, sighing through her nose. What she’d give for a Times crossword. 

 

“Miss Clements?”

 

Large eyes glanced up at the unfamiliar voice. Landed on the brunette from earlier. Kind gaze, polite smile as she looked down at the misplaced PA.

 

“Sorry to disturb you. I've been asked to come and collect you. And um, well also to let you know that it isn't a request.”

 

 

Blue eyes grew big as the moon. Stared up at the stranger. Wheeled over to the door of the Cabinet Room.

 

“My boss-”

 

“I’ll tell Mrs Murray where you are, it’s alright. They’ll be ages yet, they always are. If you could just come with me. Would you like that tea now?” The unknown woman was leaning over to take Nicola’s briefcase from her, Colette relinquishing it easily, too thrown by what was happening to put up a fight. She got to her feet. Frowned, suspicious. 

 

“Really not optional, hm?”

 

“Not really, no. Don’t worry, you’ll be alright.”

 

“Uhuh… No tea, thanks.”

 

She obediently followed as she was led down the corridor, grip tight on the handle of her stick as it tapped on the tiled floor. She was in no position to refuse anyone who asked something of her in this building, of course, but it didn’t stop nervous nausea rolling her stomach. 

 

“Just through here.” The brunette paused outside a polished wooden door. Knocked twice, then reached for the handle to push it open, handing the briefcase back as she did. Colette gripped it, tucked in close to her hip. Murmured a ‘thank you’ that didn’t have much feeling behind it. Hesitant, stepped into the room.

 

Malcolm was on the phone. Pacing behind his desk. 

 

“The people decide, not the papers, for fuck’s sake! Yeah, well Murdoch can suck my sweaty balls!”

 

Colette could have laughed, if it were another day. She heard the door close behind her, the woman who’d fetched her making her discreet escape. Waited in silence, hovering in the centre of the office while she watched the Director of Communications wear a path into the floor. Studied him while he poured rage into the mouthpiece of his Blackberry. Deep shadows across his face. The first hints of dehydration, probably driven by excessive caffeine consumption. What would his heart rate be? 

 

There were finger paintings on the wall. She caught them out the corner of her eye, lips parting a fraction in surprise as she peered at them, trying to be surreptitious about it. The young artist, whoever they were, had decided not to sign their work. Small hands had left streaks in blues and pinks though, little digits putting the age at maybe four or five. Malcolm didn’t seem the type for children, certainly not the type to proudly display juvenile dawbs... 

 

He disconnected the call. Tossed the mobile onto his desk a little too hard. Ran a palm down his face. Glanced over his fingers. Remembered he had company. 

 

“Rough day at the office?” Colette ventured a tentative smile, voice quiet, trying to seem calmer than she felt. She was fairly certain she had done literally nothing that could warrant a bollocking, but who knew. Perhaps it was just her turn. One awkward conversation at a Party conference and occasional cursory murmurings of morning greetings when he passed her desk in DoSAC since did not friends make.

 

“Fucking understatement of the year. Sit.” He pointed at a leather tub chair in front of the desk. She sank into it obediently, set Nicola’s briefcase at her feet. Malcolm watched, seemed to be working on steadying his breathing before he spoke again; “First trip to the zoo then, eh?”

 

“Mmhm. Quite a day for it…” The blonde folded her hands in her lap, feet tucked neatly together, stick tucked to the side of her thigh. “I’m supposed to be waiting for Mrs Murray, you know…” 

 

“Oh yes, Sam told me you’d been sat there for hours on end like some abandoned greyhound.” There was an eyeroll. Colette was careful to keep her face impassive. 

 

“It’s my job.” 

 

Malcolm sat in his chair on the other side of the desk. Sagged a little, maybe. 

 

“Some fucking job.”

 

“Rather mine than yours.” She smiled. Politely but with a touch of something else, maybe something teasing, though surely she wasn’t that stupid. A cynical huff left Malcolm’s nose.

 

“Got a pen?” 

 

Colette nodded. Leaned over to fish through her bag, pulling out a notepad and biro, balanced the pad on her thigh as a makeshift desk.  

 

“This is the line; ‘The Party trusts the people to make the best decision under their own merit.’ I want you to spoon feed that to Nicola like baby porridge. She’s to make no other comment aside from that. Not a fucking word. Got it?” 

 

She jotted the phrase down in a looping, feminine hand. Glanced up with arched brows.

 

“Isn’t this the sort of thing you should be telling Ollie? Or Glenn?”

 

“They’re not here, are they? You’re supposed to be a personal assistant! Assist!”

 

“Right. Yes, Mr Tucker.” She closed the book, tucked the pen in the spiral down the spine. When she looked up Malcolm was glowering at her.  She blinked once, slowly. Met his gaze. The picture of calm. “Was there something else..?”

 

“This isn’t all you want out of life. Being a skivvy to a woman who can’t be trusted to tie her own fucking shoelaces ‘cause she might hang herself with them.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

“Of course it isn’t. You checked up on me. You know it isn’t.” 

 

“What do you want then?” He steepled his fingers as he spoke, resting his bottom lip on their tips. Colette’s eyes skimmed the gold band on his left hand. Huh. Children after all, then. She felt a pang of pity somewhere in the base of her stomach for his wife. How often did he make it home to them? 

 

She hadn’t answered his question. Bugger, stop analysing. Nobody’s business but his own. 

 

“What does it matter? I’m loyal to Nicola, you don’t need to worry. I can’t be bought.” 

 

“You don’t need to be defensive. I’m not out to get you, you know.” 

 

Colette laughed. Soft and with more than a hint of wryness.

 

“I don’t know that. All I know is the rumours about you. And that you tried to sack me.”

 

“Still holding that against me?” For a moment Malcolm smiled too. “I’m serious; what’s the endgame? More than making the tea and licking Nicola’s stamps for her?”

 

Colette grazed inside of her lower lip with her teeth. Considered whether she’d be killing her own career before it even got off the ground if she told him. He had his fingers in so many pies, he could ruin her. Mind you, it wasn’t as if she was worth ruining. She was a nobody.

 

“The MOD. Defence Council. I’ll never be ministerial, I’m not stupid, I know that. But maybe in an advisory position, eventually... Haven’t you got bigger things to be worrying about? The Prime Minister must be having an aneurysm over The Sun.”

 

Malcolm released a sniff of laughter, one brow arched.

 

“Go big or fuck off, eh? The Sun’s been fist-fucking us for weeks. They’ve just made it official today. I need thirty seconds away from The Fucking Sun.” He paused. Took a long, slow breath. In the split second when he exhaled Colette thought his face gained ten years. 

 

“It’s bad, isn’t it..?” Her voice was so low it was almost a whisper, as if saying anything that doubted the strength of the Party within the hallowed walls around them were treason. If Malcolm heard her he didn’t acknowledge it. The question simply slipped by, the answer unthinkable. He leaned forwards. Pointed at the notebook in her lap. 

 

“That sentence there; that’s my gift to you. You’re going to tell Nicola. Make sure she sticks to it. Not Glenn. Not Ollie. You are going to advise her.”

 

Colette’s brows drew together, a crease between them as she frowned.

  
“I don’t want to be a mouthpiece…”

 

“I know. But you need Nicola to pay attention to you for something other than because of a sense of social guilt. Or, you can pass it on to Ollie. Or Glenn. Or Terri. Or anyone else who’d trample straight over you for a pat on the head from a Minister.” 

 

“And this would make me different to them how?”

 

“Because I’m giving this to you. You’re not climbing over anyone for it. You don’t need to worry about your principles, you’re not doing anything wrong.” He sighed. Sucked his teeth for a moment. Looked at her sat in the chair, fingers curled around the notebook, her youthful face so fucking earnest. “She left you out in that fucking corridor for hours… You’re not a dog…”

 

“What was that about social guilt again?” Colette smiled at him, the look sweet and silently grateful for his words. She slipped the book back into her handbag. Nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her for you…” 

 

“Really ram it home. If you’re gonna be a Malcolm Tucker mouthpiece make sure you put some colour in there, huh? A bit of fucking flavour.” He smirked. Seemed to have relaxed through his shoulders some. Still looked exhausted though. 

 

“I’m think from me that might be gross misconduct. I don’t have your gravitas.” 

 

The smirk grew. There was a knock at the door. A knock that seemed to have a certain weight and rhythm about it, because Malcolm recognised it’s owner immediately;

 

“In y’come Sam.”

 

Colette glanced back over her shoulder as the door opened, revealing the brunette who’d escorted her to Malcolm’s office and behind her Nicola, her features pinched and fractious. Colette swore under her breath. Stood quickly, grabbing up her bag and the briefcase, hearing Malcolm call as she snatched up her stick,

 

“I was only borrowing her, don’t get your knickers in a twist. She’s in one piece.”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Malcolm, what have you been up to? I swear to God, if you’ve been needling her-” The Minister was growing rapidly incensed, stepping forwards to take her briefcase from the blonde as she spoke. “She’s not your bloody pin-cushion!”

 

“It’s fine, Mrs Murray. Really. Mr Tucker was just checking in on me, I- the meeting went on quite a long while, didn’t it?” Colette maneuvered out into the corridor, feeling strangely at odds between her boss and the spin doctor. She gave Nicola a bright but apologetic smile. Swung her handbag over her shoulder. 

 

“I know, I’m sorry, you wouldn’t believe what- what a poo slinging match it was in there.” The Minister groaned and went to tuck her arm through Colette’s in a familiar sort of way, giving it a tug to draw her away a couple of feet, a sort of overprotective gesture. Malcolm spotted it. Swallowed back the swirl of offense he felt. Of course Nicola thought he was going to eat her wee young pet. 

 

“Right, well, glad to see my days as appointed babysitter are over. Off you fuck.” He waved an arm, dismissing them from his office doorway. Show them he didn’t care. That he didn’t give a fuck if Nicola thought he’d been bullying her assistant in her absence. 

 

He was rewarded with a glare from the Minister. She tugged on Colette’s arm once more, said slightly too loudly as she went to steer her away,

 

“Come on, I’ll get lunch. It’s the least I can do, I’m sorry for all that. What a totally wasted morning for you. It was awful, honestly, I’ll fill you in...”

 

Colette went with her, obliging as always. She glanced back though. Face lit up with a golden smile, full of silent laughter. Always fucking smiling. Malcolm was starting to realise it about her. Fuck knew why, given what she’d been through. It was a nice change though, that fresh, smiling face through the mob of dourness he waded through day after day after day. He smiled back, just a glimmer. Couldn’t help himself. 

 

Nicola better not ruin her. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update time!
> 
> As always, thank you kindly for the comments and kudos'. They're great motivators! Feedback is always super appreciated by this over caffeinated scribbler.
> 
> I thought long and hard about uploading this chapter, to be honest. It's been in the creative brain bank for ages, but after everything that's been going on in the UK lately I admit, I worried a little about how appropriate it might be. At the same time though, it was going to be posted sooner or later and I tried to write it with respect in mind, as always.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think.

"Man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn." - Robert Burns, 1784

 

 

October 11th. Just gone half ten. 

 

Malcolm on his mobile as he alighted from the lift in DoSAC. A small, private compartment of brain reserved for the understanding of self making gentle, unhelpful hints about ‘had he really considered the impact of having it superglued to the side of his fucking head day to day’? It was a thought that occasionally peeked out from behind a rock, usually on days like today where he’d been talking over sixty minutes to one person or another, the side of his face hot under the handset. Total bollocks, but still, a slither of him liked to try and insist he took care of himself. Pain in the backside.

 

“I don’t give two shits of a lamb’s tail! Eileen will just have to postpone her fucking throat surgery! I want her steam-cleaned  and on The Daily Politics, smiling and nodding at Andrew Neil's sneery, fucking haemorrhoid face, and telling him to lay off the fucking fish suppers and the poppers, right?! Do it!”

 

Two weeks deep and he was still trying to peel off the layers of charred skin The Sun’s disowning had left immolated all over the Party. It was possible to recover from such a public binning, they’d managed it after Kinnock in ‘92, but time… He didn’t have the time. It’d taken five years then, now they had nine months, if they were lucky. There wasn’t enough time. 

 

He’d fight to the fucking last though.

 

Colette was on the phone as he strode past. Quick, perfunctory glance in her direction. She had the phone cradled on her shoulder, held in place with her cheek, while she scribbled rapidly on a post-it note. Brows furrowed, apologising profusely while she tooks notes;

 

“Yes, I do appreciate you’ve been waiting some time. Yes, yes, twenty minutes, I’m very aware. I understand that but the Minister is actually quite busy I- Sorry, could I just pop you on hold for a minute?” The blonde pressed the button on her VoIP phone so quickly it was apparent she hadn’t waited for permission. As it lit up red Malcolm saw her take a couple of deep breaths through her nose. Centreing herself.  A sip of tea. He nodded vaguely at her. She didn’t notice. The phone began to chime again, reminding her she’d left it on hold for more than thirty seconds, how dare she? As he let himself into the meeting room where Nicola was supposed to be, he heard the PA start again;

 

“Thanks so much for holding, sorry about that, the other line rang. So. Right. Yes. Mr Stone, I understand. Well, I’m looking at the Minister’s diary here and it was our understanding that  _ Mr _ Murray was to be attending the meeting this afternoon. No, no, I’m not trying to fob you off, not at all, but have you actually tried calling him, I’m sure he has a telephone as well? No, I don’t believe I’m being facetious…” 

 

Malcolm bit back a smirk. Focus on the task at hand. Leave her to it. A glimmer there, perhaps, of why Nicola had become so attached to her. 

 

“Right, where’s Dame Ellen McArseache?”

 

Collapse into shambolic spiels trying to puff up Social Mobility under Nicola’s latest confounding label. Fourth Sector. Sounded like something from an Orwell novel. It wasn’t that Malcolm had anything against it as a concept. He was all for bumping hard working people up through layers of social stratification. Why shouldn’t effort deserve reward? It was just that Nicola was making it so fucking boring. What should be a relatively simple concept she was attempting to dress up in endless fucking flounce and argot, until it’d be so far removed from the sensible concept that the industrious population should reap the benefit from their endeavours that she was creating a glass fucking ceiling for herself. Slog away, get a big fat slice of cake at the end of it. Was it really so fucking hard? 

 

She was anxious. Stuttery. Clutching her mobile, which kept ringing, shrill peals in her hand. She couldn’t sell botox to Jackie fucking Stallone…

 

She pinged the phone to voicemail. It rang again thirty seconds later. Jesus Christ, answer it or throw it out the fucking window. 

 

“Hey, come on, come on.” He chided her far more gently than she deserved. Maybe it was just because she looked so utterly frazzled. He had a feeling if he raised his voice she might burst into tears. Last thing he needed, with the Opposition bringing their saggy arses over for a good sniff around in DoSAC’s knicker drawers.

 

A hand appeared over the top of the frosted portion of the glass. Pressed a yellow square of paper against the clear pane. Cursive penmanship.

 

_ It’s Mr Stone again! Pick up your phone! _

 

Nicola glanced over midway through mullering John F. Kennedy’s greatest speech to her own ends to read the note. Eyes dropped to her mobile. Still trying to talk. Malcolm stood with his hips leaned back against the wall, one hand pressed to his bottom lip, the other crossed across his chest, hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. Exercise in futility really, trying to get her to focus when she was in this sort of state. The hand and it’s written plea disappeared from the window. Terri slipped out a moment later while the Minister tried to fumble on, apparently deciding determined ignorance was best, What she didn’t acknowledge she didn’t have to deal with. It was only when Terri came back, gently coaxing Nicola out to speak with Mr Stone about her daughter’s ‘problem’ with her usual lacklustre amount of tact that the frayed MP ultimately caved and excused herself from the room in a fog of frustrated swearing. 

 

Part of him felt for her. Just a little. He remembered what it was like, somewhere back in the annals of his mind and the  different life they held. It was beyond hard, trying to balance this world and the world of home. The loved ones that fell to the wayside, ones who should always have come first slipping lower and lower on the list of priorities, until all that was left was bitterness and resentment. The glue that had once bound one person to another corroded away by countless broken promises, missed dinners, unanswered phone calls… In the end there wasn’t even fighting. Just cold, distant silence as bags were packed and rings handed over. It was a slippery slope. Of course she had to take the fucking call. 

 

As he rounded on Glenn and Ollie to try and assault some enthusiasm into them for the Minister’s pet project while she was out of the room,  he kept one eye half out of the glass wall of the office, watching Nicola’s cheeks turn hot pink while she spoke on the phone, Terri at her elbow in what could be construed as an awkward show of support. It didn’t come as a surprise when she came to him, practically pleading to be allowed time to go to the school. He should have said no, of course, He should have told her to sort her fucking soap opera out on her own time, not when the Opposition were looming only hours away, ready to leap on the subtlest hint of weakness. Even made a slight go at it, a half hearted remark about how she was on the taxpayer’s pound and not being paid to deal with her personal life. He couldn’t put any real force behind it though, as he looked down at her, blanched with stress. She blamed him for this. It was his fault that her daughter had turned into the monster from Krull. He just had that effect on families… Go. Go and we’ll deal with it later. 

 

Watched as Colette helped her with her coat, the rest of her team skirting off in an award winning show of avoidance, all embarrassed for her. Only the PA met her eyes, gently laid both hands on her forearms and bowed her head in to whisper to her, unheard words of reassurance, spoken for the Minister’s ears only. Everything would be fine. A lot of fuss over nothing. That sort of thing, probably. The two women exchanged smiles, Nicola’s anemic. Colette walked her to the stairs, but the Minister wouldn’t let her see her down them. When the blonde came back she went to the tea station, starting to put a hot drink together, snatching a few seconds for herself now the immediate crisis was being tackled. Only realised he was still watching her as he saw her jiggle the string on her teabag. Fuck. Focus. 

 

Get the department together, try and make it look less of a landslide than it was. Terri would meet Mannion, her and her ski-slope cleavage could buy them some time to stuff a few bodies into cabinets. A snapped order had Glenn on the phone, polling for public opinion on Fourth Sector policy. Nicola loved that kind of thing, it’d give her something to smile about when she came back. A bit of warm and fuzzy. Ollie nowhere to be seen. Greasy little fucker, probably sneaking fags while the cat was away. Civil servants sent scattering, under strict orders to make sure everything was filed away and no fucker was stupid enough to leave slips of paper denoting Government strategy just lying around like yesterday’s Mirror. 

 

Fifteen minutes had DoSAC at least looking like it was a well oiled machine. It was all surface, true, an iceberg of potential cock-up, the veiled, Peter Mannion shaped ship in the distance just fucking  _ waiting _ to collide with it, but Malcolm was sure that if he kept a tight grasp he might just pull the department through for today, even with its Minister being conspicuously absent. Leave a meeting broadly blocked into Nicola’s diary with the PA to ensure she didn’t slip away at the end of the day, twenty minutes to deliver the requisite bollocking, (once he was certain her daughter was alright first). Then he could observe the visit from the periphery like the ambush predator he was. Get them through the day, it was a few hours, they could do it, they could do it, they had to do it...

 

He turned towards Colette’s desk, an eyebrow lifted as he saw it was still empty. How long did it take to make a cup of fucking tea? 

 

Long strides carried him to the last spot he’d seen her. Irked. He didn’t need anyone else doing a disappearing act. 

 

She wasn’t at the kettle. Fuck’s sake. Just wanted to pen in a pummeling. Must have gone for a cigarette. 

 

He started towards the lift. Got as far as pressing the call button. Caught a glimpse of blonde out of the corner of his eye. Turned his gaze. Put out glare landed on the PA, stood amongst the faded pink sofas tucked against the far wall, staring at the small, square television positioned between them, left to have BBC News permanently scrolling. Scowled. Doss o’clock, apparently. 

 

He swept towards her, the pressure of the day leaving him ready to unleash a verbal lashing upon her for wasting her time and therefore the Minister's and his, the words spooling to the tip of his tongue until he got close enough to see her face. Youthful features were a pallid, bloodless grey, eyes large as they fixed on the screen, pupils dilated. She still had her mug in one hand, the other gripping her stick hard enough her knuckles were blanched. 

 

Malcolm stopped a couple of feet short of her. His gaze followed hers to the television. Images of a sun-bitten country, clouds of dust and smoke obscuring the camera, a frantic correspondent barely audible on the crackling mic while the band of red and white text scrolled along the bottom of the picture; a series of bombings, aimed at ministerial buildings in Ramadi. Where peace talks were to have been held. Co-ordinated attacks, on security personnel, another aimed at a hospital... The number of fatalities still unconfirmed, but thought to climb...

 

Fuck.

 

Razor sharp eyes sloped back to the PA. A hand reached out, closed long fingers around her elbow. Blue irises tore away from the news to look up at him, alarm and then a breath later embarrassment painted on her features. He met her gaze, his brows drawn down. 

 

“Do you need a moment?” 

 

A pause that was a heartbeat too long before she shook her head. Lie. Malcolm reached over and relieved her of her teacup with his free hand. Set it down on the coffee table between the pink sofas. 

 

“Come with me.” He kept hold of her elbow, grip firm enough to steer her but careful enough to not be tight. She went willingly as he drew her over to the lift and guided her into it, pressing the button for the ground floor once they were inside. The unease in her face mounted in a soft flush that brought some colour back to her cheeks. A weak attempt at protest as the lift began to move downwards;

 

“I’ve got work to do, I need to move the Minister’s afternoon appointments up-”

 

“It can wait.” 

 

As they came down to the ground floor he let go of her arm. Planted his palm lightly between her shoulder blades instead, to guide her out the back of the building. Autumn air cool as they stepped into it, the smell of rain being promised on the breeze. Colette turned to face him when they reached the spot behind the bins. Still looked peaky. Malcolm gestured a hand towards her.

 

“Have a smoke. I’ll turn a blind eye.”

 

“I don’t smoke.” 

 

“Since when?”

 

“Since you told me not to.” A thin, forced smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Malcolm quirked a brow. Said nothing. Worked silently to ensure he didn’t choose this inopportune moment to look pleased with himself over that particular victory. Pleased she’d listened. He’d almost forgotten about that. 

 

Colette leaned back against the wooden shelter and lifted her walking stick to hook it over her elbow. Exhaled slowly, her eyes on her feet. 

 

“I don’t have PTSD. You don’t need to worry about me going off on one, I won’t break.” 

 

Malcolm slipped both hands into his trouser pockets, Moved to lean as well, leaving a careful half foot between them. Don’t overcrowd her.

 

“I don’t think that.”

 

“Liar.” She peered up at him. The smile more genuine. Rosey hues returning to her features slowly. He risked a smirk. Gently. Gently. Don’t insult her.

 

“You did look like you could use some air.” She nodded. Appreciative of the honesty. Turned her gaze to the building before them. 

 

“Everyone expects me to be traumatised. I suppose I must have been, a long time ago, but these days… I’m not one of these ones that gets flashbacks or nightmares or anything. I’m really not. Honestly, I don’t actually remember a lot of it, I had some issues with short term memory after, you know… The accident… I just… It’s sad. Six years in and people are still blowing each other to bits. It’s so sad… Civilians will have died today.” 

 

Malcolm listened in respectful silence as she spoke, one ankle tucking behind the other. Studied her profile. Struck for the umpteenth time by how young she was. Young and small and fragile. Jesus, don’t ever let her know he thought that, she’d kill him. She probably could, too.

 

“Is this going to be a problem?” His voice was low, almost inaudible, the tone one of rare gentility and concern. Concern for her, concern for the rest of them, too. She glanced up at him from beneath the wisps of pale gold hair that framed her face. Smiled. A sad sort of smile,

 

“Good God, this again? Just  _ ask _ me, Malcolm. Go ahead and say it, for God’s sake. Before you get a hernia.” 

 

“Do you blame the Party?”

 

The words hung between them, a slowly swinging pendulum. A quiet, wry exhale of breath left Colette, not quite a laugh. Malcolm’s tongue touched his lower lip as he waited for her answer.

 

“It’s not a case of blame. Sometimes terrible things happen in the world, and there’s those who are part of it and those who aren’t. I was a soldier. Third generation, did you know that? Actually, I suppose you did…” She paused. Gave him a  small, slightly dry smile. He nodded. He knew. The dossier had told him that much. 

 

“My grandfather, my father, my brother, and me. As far as I was concerned, there was no question about what my career would be. I was proud to serve my country. When I was deployed, I was doing my job, and I did it until I was incapable. I don’t regret it…” Another pause. Malcolm saw her touch the outside of her left thigh, just for a moment. Then she smiled once more, warm and honest and leaving her whole countenance without a drop of malice or anger that might have been expected from her. “I don’t blame anybody. I don’t. What’s happened in the East is… It’s beyond awful. For everyone involved. But what would be the point in blaming anyone? I knew what I was getting into, when I enlisted. You can stop looking for some sort of ulterior motive or vendetta in me, Malcolm, because it’s not there. I promise. I just want to do my part.” 

 

Malcolm wanted to touch her. He wanted to lay his palms on her small frame, maybe even embrace her. He didn’t, of course, but he wanted to, intently enough that something in the pit of his stomach burned hot. He’d spent his whole career polishing up sycophants and liars, self-serving crawlers who were lightning quick to plunge knives into one another’s backs if it meant they could climb the ladder. Her voice was a world away from that. 

 

The only response he allowed himself was a nod. Slow, deliberate incline of his head. Colette echoed him. Both  turned their gazes to the building ahead of them as a quiet settled over them. He heard Colette shift her weight. 

 

“You did well. With Nicola, after The Sun. She got namechecked by Andrew Marr, he was polite. It was almost fucking sinister.”

 

“It was your line. I just delivered it to her. Credit goes to you and Mrs Murray.” Amusement in her voice. 

 

“What did she say? When it came from you?”

 

“I don’t think she noticed, to be honest. Poor Nicola… She’s practically on a policy feeding tube. It’s sort of heartbreaking to watch. She wants so badly to make the world a better place, but she doesn’t seem to get much chance… I sometimes think she gets her own ideas bullied out of her.” 

 

“Is that a swipe at me?” One corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk. A gentle laugh left the blonde.

 

“No. Actually… Actually, I thought what you did today was a nice thing. Letting her go up to the school like that. You didn’t have to. God knows you’ve got enough on your plate upstairs without family crises.”

 

Malcolm shrugged. Untucked one hand from his trousers to rub the back of his neck.

  
“Kids have got to come first.”

 

Finger paintings in his office.

 

“They do.” Colette set the foot of her walking stick on the pavement. Shifted her weight into it. “I do have work to do, Malcolm. I’m fine. I swear.” Looked up at him, gave him one of those sunlit smiles. Malcolm peered down at her.

  
“Right. ‘Course y’are. Look, when Nicola comes back, just let me know, yeah? I’ll want a word with her.”

 

“Betray Mrs Murray?” She smirked. Joking.

 

“I’ll be gentle with her.” Malcolm smirked back.  

 

“Okay. I’ll drop you an email. I’m going to head back up.” She was already side stepping out from underneath the shelter. Paused, looked thoughtful. “Thank you. You were right. The air was good.” Malcolm nodded, arms folded across his chest. The blonde turned to leave, a handful of steps taken before he called after her,

  
“Colette, wait. Hang on. There was one more thing, actually.” She paused. Looked back over her shoulder at him expectantly. He pushed himself away from the wooden wall to close the gap between them, head bowed slightly as he reached her, voice low;

 

“The inquiry. You know Chilcot’s opened it up to the general public, right? That they’re putting in a lottery system for seats, to go and attend the witness hearings.” 

 

A flicker of something in her eyes. She nodded. 

 

“I know…”

 

“Right. So, I know you don’t blame anyone, but… Well, if you had the chance to sit in on a testimony, would you want to go?  Hypothetically speaking.”

 

She stared at him. He couldn’t read her face. Hated the fact.

 

“I… I don’t know, Malcolm…”

 

“This is all speculative, of course, I was just curious as to where you stood.” Backpedal, quickly. He’d crossed a line.

 

“I really don’t know. I don’t think that’s something I could decide on a whim.”

 

“Right. Of course. Forget I mentioned it. Although, if you did… You should let me know.” He took a step back. Give her space. She gazed up at him, her face still a touch pale. 

 

“I really have to go.” Stepped back. Practically itching to get away from him. 

 

“Right, yeah. ‘Course. You go, forget I said anything.” She nodded. Turned and hurried back into the building as fast as her walking stick would allow. 

 

Shouldn’t have brought it up. 

 

Fuck! 


End file.
